


Comfort Required

by navyhurricane



Series: Dean's Angel of Death Adventures [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel of Death Reader, Caring Dean, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Rape/Non-con Elements, angel reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-26 02:13:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10777326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navyhurricane/pseuds/navyhurricane
Summary: The boys decide to hit up a bar. (Y/n) comes along, attracting some unwanted attention from the people already there, making Dean intervene and care for you after.





	Comfort Required

   You blink at the black dress Sam whips in front of you, feeling the slightest wisp of it brush your nose. Standing in the middle of some abandoned house on the countryside, the dress is most definitely out of place. Dean was gone to dispose of the werewolf bodies, so it was only Sam and yourself in the dank room. The tile was curling at the edges, wallpaper rotting, and there was all sorts of trash and animal residue everywhere. It was, most definitely, disgusting.

   "Where did you purchase that?" You scrunch your nose up, eyeing the fabric like it would bite you if you came too close. Maybe it would. You've never worn something like that.

   "I saw it in the last town. Thought that you would like some sort of bar dress, so I picked it up." Sam looks bashful, but he still urges the dress towards you. "We are going to a bar later, and Dean wants you to come." 

   You squint at the dress again, wings shuddering as you take it. "Alright... but if it doesn't suit me, I will change back." You motion at your jeans and dirty shirt before taking the dress from a now laughing Sam.

   "Fine with me."

 

            ~~~

 

   Dean knows that you're wearing a dress. He knows it because he can see a hint of those thighs under the huge red flannel of his that you hid yourself in before getting in the Impala. He knows it because you've got your hair done so breathtakingly. He knows it because you aren't wearing those heavy boots you love, but instead a pair of (stylish?) black combat boots that actually look comfortable. He can smell the slight scent of you and your shampoo; that coconut mixture that you absolutely adore. He can see that nervous look in your eye, one that shows that you care what everyone is going to think. Fuck, he just knows that you are going to be amazing, and he can hardly concentrate on parking straight in the parking lot of the bar. 

   On the outskirts of town, the bar has that cheesy neon sign and the wraparound porch, complete with the odd licence plate nailed on the wall and more spray painted pieces than you wants to count. Cars fill the lot, most of them cold looking and old. 

   Dean and Sam get out, and you nearly trip over yourself following them. 

   Dean holds the door for you, and you duck shyly under his arm, offering a short word of thanks. You look around at the rustic bar, beer and sweat filling your nose and the sound of some song, loud enough to sing along to but not enough to be blaring in your ear. 

   There's a considerable amount of people here. Mostly men, but you can see the odd female nursing a beer alone with a thundery look or sitting in a booth with an arm slung over her shoulders. They all seem to be either wearing regular clothing or something like you, which you still haven't uncovered yet. 

   You slide into a tall stool and table, set directly in between the pool table and bar. You cross your legs, boots clicking slightly on the metal legs of the table. You set your chin on your hands, studying everything you can. The smell of Dean wafts from the flannel, making your cheeks heat up the slightest. Invisible, your wings flap excitedly and nervously. What would he think of your attire? Sam thought that you looked awesome, and he did reassure you that Dean wouldn't be able to speak properly. Whatever that meant. Dean's vocal chords were perfectly fine. 

   A brown bottle of beer is set in front of you, curtesy of Dean. He plunks down in the chair opposite to you, lining up the three shots he brought back for himself. You watch as he throws one back, exposing the expanse of his throat. You swallow hard, and take a much too large sip of your own drink.

   A shiver runs down your spine. You frown, and turn around, eyes scanning the bar tables suspiciously for anybody who may be looking at you. However, everybody is talking or staring at their own drinks. Nobody is looking at you, but some of the men are glancing towards you, eyeing you. You clear your throat, and avoid all of their eyes before turning back to Dean. He strikes up a random conversation about the different types of alcohol, but you listen intently. Every word he says sounds deep and rough, but with a pleasant lift to the tone. It sounds like Dean.

   Sam wanders over after a while, jacket missing and hair slightly messed up. "Hey, (y/n), take off the shirt!" You smile at him, nerves slightly relaxed from the alcohol, and nod. You don't see the way Dean straightens in his seat, green eyes focusing on you hard. 

   You stand up, boots landing on the floor with solid clicks. They attract the gaze of a man sitting with his group of three by the door, but you don't notice. Nobody does. 

   Slipping the flannel off your arms, you look it over the back of the barstool you were on previously, and smooth down the dress. 

   The black fabric goes down to about your midthigh, and is completely backless. There's straps holding it up around the sides of your shoulders, and the front is higher cut so that you don't show off your cleavage from the side. It's not frilly, and there's no lace, but without the back, it shows off your tattoo. Thinking about it, you could probably have your wings out with it as well. 

   Somebody chokes behind you, and you turn to see Dean with his arm over his mouth, coughing up the beer he obviously swallowed wrong. You meet his eyes, and-

   Damn. Deep and dark, bursting with emotion, with want, with everything that makes you shiver, although the air in the bar is heated due to the bodies and the probably broken thermostat. You watch those eyes drag down your body, devour every inch of skin they possibly can, and then back up again to stare at you with such an adoring feel. Your face turns hot, and you turn away blushing.

   Sam laughs, and slings a friendly arm around your shoulders, squeezing once before staggering off. You watch him leave, not noticing that Dean is also vacating the area. He's heading to the bathroom, but you don't know that, and feel a shock of pain and disappointment when you don't find him in that barstool.

   He left his beer, though, and you reach over to finish it. Yours is already long gone, and you feel like indulging in the pleasures regular humans do. The glass is cold against your lips, and you hop back into the stool, crossing your legs and unconsciously revealing more of your thigh. Your boots click against the table once again.

   You're about halfway through Dean's beer when a figure that isn't one of the Winchesters slides into the seat directly beside you. You glance up at the towering person, and in turn they stare down at you with a brown eyed gaze that makes you shudder. It's a different chill, though, unlike the one you had with Dean; this one makes your stomach curl and you swallow nervously.

   "Hey, there. Finally got those other guys away, huh?" You frown.

   "No, I quite like them. And they should be back soon-"

   "I'm Mike. What's your name, beautiful?" 

   Your frown turns into a flat line. Why is he talking to you like your friends? You don't even know him. "(Y/n)."

   "(Y/n), hm... sounds sexy." The scowl is back in place. Mike motions at your now empty beer. "Buy you another?"

   You still at this, recalling those times that Dean talked about the cheap ways of buying girls drinks at bars, and what they normally led to. Your eyes widen. You don't want that! 

   "No, thanks, but I need to go." You shouldn't leave the bar. You really shouldn't. Sam and Dean won't know where you went. But now Mike has a hand on your thigh, and you push him away before moving out of your stool and heading towards the door. You don't look back, meaning you don't see the enraged look on Mike's face.

   The cool air feels heavenly on your skin and sobers you up slightly, reminding you that you are wearing quite a revealing dress. Red tints your cheeks, and you cross your arms before leaning your shoulder against the wooden wall, out of sight in the shadows. Or so you thought. 

   When the door bangs open, and the tall brooding shape bursts into the dark, all you can think of is how you should never have taken the flannel off. 

 

            ~~~

 

   Dean watched you stand up. He watched you slip that shirt of his down and off your shoulders. He watched as the bare expanse of your back and spine were exposed so perfectly. He saw that tattoo, the one that you got with him. 

   Fuck.

   He had to escape to the bathroom, alcohol making his head slightly thick and twisting his needs around so that they were all based around you. All he wanted was to run his fingers up that tattoo on your spine, all while pressing into you so that he could feel you. Maybe he would whisper-

   Fuckkk.

   Staring at his slightly flushed reflection in the bathroom mirror, he reaches down so he can run the faucet and press cupped water to his face. It barely helps calm the raging storm of feelings inside him. Shit, if he goes back out there now, he can't guarantee how good his behaviour might be. 

   "Let's just stay here for a bit..."

   A bit ends up being fifteen minutes, and when he finally walks back out of the dinky bathroom, he finds that you're walking briskly out the door, speed pulling the skirt up more. Dean moves to follow, confusion and worry making him more aware of his surroundings. That's how he sees the hulking man trailing you, his face screwed up in anger and lust. His eyes were focused hard on you, and before Dean could do anything, you both disappeared around the outside of the bar. 

   "Shit-!"

   Pushing past people and weaving through flying arms from those drunkenly dancing, Dean raced towards the door. Some guy following you plus a damn sexy dress equals completely not good.

   Cold air hits him smack in the face. Dean's head whips around, searching for your small frame anywhere in the shadows, by a car. The neon sign buzzes overhead, and his breaths turn cloudy as he exhales hard. He can't believe he let you out of sight! God, what a mistake...

   He hears a dull thud, then  a muffled groan in the direction of the parking lot. It could be some brawl, but he knows that voice. He helped stitch that voice up once, and that is the sound of the owner of that voice in pain.

   "(Y/n)!"

   Dean flies off the steps, tripping over his own feet as uneven gravel appears under him. Damn the beer in his system! The hunter cranks his body up, frantically searching for you. He knows that you're around here, he just can't find you in the fucking dark!

 

            ~~~

 

   You ran. You ran to the Impala, all the way across the parking lot. Mike followed you, gaining fast, but you managed to get to the sleek car before him.

   Just as you go to open the passenger door, a cold hand clamps around your wrist and spins you around roughly, twisting your arm. You gasp, wrenching away and slamming your spine into the side of Dean's car. You whimper, holding your throbbing wrist close to your abdomen and glaring up at the man. 

   He leers down at you, hands outstretched to keep you from escaping again. He's far enough away that you can't kick him in the genitals, and you definitely can't match his strength. The muscles rippling over his skin are proof of that. For the first time in a while, fear fills your body as you shudder. 

   "Awe, don't be scared, babydoll." Mike reaches forwards with a hand and strokes the side of your face. You don't even have time to be disgusted as he slams his body up against you and into the side of the Impala, one palm over your mouth and the other holding your injured arm. He squeezes, and you groan under his hand.

   "So cute..." he coos, and you can't help the tears welling up in your eyes. "And all mine." He accentuates the last word with a harsh roll of his hips, and you gasp, bike rising in your throat as you feel the hard against your abdomen, where your arm was held moments before. Mike plasters his body over yours, and let's go of your arm but not without a last squeeze that makes you groan. You hardly pay attention to where the hand is going, but when fingers dive just under the bottom of your dress, you find out. Your knees buckle, and the only thing holding you up is the weight of Mike stuck to you.

   "(Y/n)!"

    _Dean!_

   You rip your face away from Mike's hand, and sink your teeth into his flesh, right between the thumb and forefinger. As he screams, blood fills your mouth and you recoil in utter revolt. Pain explodes in your cheek as the bloody hand strikes you across the face, making your head hit the car and causing Mike's rage filled face to go blurry. 

   As you sink to your knees, you vaguely register somebody tackling Mike, punches being landed, and the gross sobbing and apologies of the hulking man. Somebody runs away, and you flinch at the thundering steps. Your head swims, making everything thick.

   Calloused but kind hands wrap around your forearms, and you shriek in pain, instantly recoiling as the hurt in your left arm makes itself known.

   "Sorry, I'm so sorry, sweetheart..." 

   You blink hard, trying to place the floating face in front of yours. "D-Dean?"

   Dean's hands find soft purchase on your waist and under your shoulder, helping you stand carefully. You vision clears, and you see worried green eyes boring deep into yours. His fingers dart all over your face, carefully tracing your swollen cheekbone and running soothing lines over your injured wrist. "Yeah, it's me. He's gone, it's all me." Your brow relaxes, and you lean slightly into him, feeling safe near him.

   Dean's jaw tightens as you do this, and he pulls you forwards, into his chest with a firm and resolute thought. He tucks your head under his chin, wrapping a careful arm around your waist and pressing the other on the back of your head, folding you perfectly into the crook of his neck. Your good arm is tucked between you both, and the other is braced over the arm around your waist. 

   You gasp a shuddering breath, breathing in all that is Dean: a rich, deep scent that makes you feel safe and protected. 

   A low whine starts in your throat, rising until it turns into a sob. You don't know why you're crying. Maybe it has something to do with the adrenaline rush in your veins, now turning into something shaky and anxious, and the deep feel of fear and dread that made you want to vomit. You press your face deeper into his neck, ignoring the tears that stain his shirt. He's not wearing a jacket. Did he run out to look for you? What would have happened if he hadn't of done that?

   "Shh, it's okay." Dean strokes your hair softly, whispering into your ear and keeping you tucked firm into him, exactly where you want to stay. He leans his own forehead against yours, exhaling shaky breaths against the crown of your head. "It's okay now." Before he knows what he's doing, he presses a comforting kiss to your temple, lingering for a moment too long to be completely platonic, but neither of you care. You can ponder about it later.

 

            ~~~

 

   Sam ends up going home with one of the girls at the bar. Dean drives you and himself back to the motel, not mentioning the way you sit in the middle of the bench seat, opting to keep pressed up to his side than obey the law. He drives carefully, just for that reason. You just went though a slightly traumatic experience; there's no way in Heaven or Hell he would make it any worse with a car crash.

   That fucking asshole. He was probably planning on raping you, someway or another. You don't have the strength of an angel anymore, and if Dean hadn't of intervened-

   He almost shudders. 

   You reach forwards with a tentative hand, aiming at the radio dial. You glance at Dean, remembering his music rule. 'Driver picks the music, shotgun shits his cakehole.' He sees you, and smiles briefly before nodding.

   You slowly turn it, and the song that was playing cuts out. You don't know what station was playing, but the mans voice stops speaking as soon as you get the static to disappear.

_I had a thought, dear, however scary._

_About that night, the bugs and the dirt._

_Why were you digging, what did you bury?_

_Before those hands pulled me from the earth?_

   You sigh at the mellow tone, watching the road and the odd insect fly up and over the windshield. Your wrist aches horridly, but you don't let Dean know. You don't want to make a fuss, because he already saved you. Maybe you have enough Grace left to heal it slowly, but quicker than normal. Internally, you know that isn't possible. Any Grace you may have had is gone, and any slivers left are buried deep inside, remnants that are probably bound to your wings.

_I will not ask you where you came from._

_I will not ask and neither should you._

_Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips._

_We should just kiss like real people do._

   You find the rhythm of the song, humming along to the words as it plays. You immerse yourself in it, completely missing the adoring glance Dean sends your way.

 

            ~~~

 

   The pale yellow light floods the motel room, illuminating the tacky  lilac walls and the supposedly cream coloured bedding. You drop your bag on one of the beds from your right arm, the one that isn't injured, and keep your left side turned away from Dean. You quickly grab a navy blue long sleeve shirt and a pair of soft jeans before darting into the bathroom. Dean didn't even open his bag by the time you shut that door.

   You stare at yourself in the mirror, poking at your messed up hair and your wide, bloodshot eyes. A bruise is forming on your cheekbone, and some of the blood around it belongs to you. That man must have been wearing some sort of ring, because there's a shallow scrape over the tender spot. You tilt your head to look at your earring, making sure the gold hoop is still intact, for any meddling with it could have unknown consequences.

   The effects of the alcohol still run through your veins, and you sway slightly before grabbing the counter with your left hand.

   "Shit-!" You hiss out in pain, stumbling back into the wall as you clutch at your arm. It hurts!

   Peeling your fingers away after the pain goes someplace else, you stare at the red fingersprints on your left forearm, counting eight in total because Mike had adjusted his grip and bruised another part with three other fingers. You can clearly trace the handprint shape, and with the skin bright red and slightly raw, there's no hiding it from Dean unless you want to wear long sleeves all month. 

   You fumble with your dress and shoes, finally getting them to drop to the floor in a heap of cloth and leather. The dress came with a built in bra, so you aren't wearing one. You ignore the cool air on your chest, and slip the shirt over your head, grimacing when the fabric tightens around your arm. 

   You pull on the pants, and make sure the sleeve is covering your arm before walking out of the bathroom. Dean changed his shirt while you were in there, and now he has two beers in his hand and the remote in the other. The television is stationed directly beside his bed, making it difficult for the other to watch. You shyly sneak beside Dean, and sit carefully on the bed beside him. 

   He smiles at you, and hands one of the beers over. You take it gratefully, sipping as Dean settles on a show. You don't recognize it, but apparently Dean does because he moves up the bed and relaxes against the headboard. After a few awkward seconds, he pats the space next to him. "Join me?"

   You nod, and move to lean on your left arm to balance-

   "Fuck-!" The bottle in your hand hits the floor as you gasp in pain, grasping desperately at your arm and willing the hurt to stop. It throbs, hot and burning, and you whine in the back of your throat. Sticky beer splashes and soaks into the carpet around your toes, making you grimace as the cold hits your socks, but you have more painful matters to worry about. There's no hiding this from Dean anymore.

   "Shit, don't move!" Dean next to flies off the bed, rummaging around for his medical kit and keeping an eye on your simultaneously. He knew there was something wrong. Something that made you careful and awkward in your normally graceful movements. Fuck, he should have gotten there sooner!

   "Okay, sweetheart, shirt off. I wanna see how bad it is, and rolling it up is just going to hurt more." At your hesitation, Dean smiles sheepishly and grabs an olive t-shirt out of his bag. You recognize it as one that has rips in the back, where your wings can fit out of. "Change into this?" You nod, and grit your teeth before attempting to inch the sleeve down your arm. You whimper, catching Dean's attention. 

   He leans towards you, shuffling closer on the bed so if he wanted to, his arms would wrap all the way around you. Instead, Dean gets you to turn around so you aren't facing him. His fingers dance around the hem of your shirt before he slowly pulls it up, inching it over your back. You help him when it gets to your shoulders, and you hear Dean's sharp but quiet intake of breath when he sees your completely bare back. No bra. Only smooth skin and that sexy tattoo. 

   Dean lifts the shirt so you can raise your arms and slip out of it almost painlessly, arms instantly dropping to the shirt and pulling it over your body, covering what Dean really wanted to see.

   Lately, he's been wanting to be around you more, talk to you, get a small giggle or smile out of you. Sometimes he wants to wrap an arm around you, pull you close, but he doesn't know what happened before you were an angel. You don't talk about it, and Dean doesn't press. The pale and panicked look that would cross your face is always enough to make him stop.

   Dean gently sets his fingers on your shirt, aiming the rips in the back over the entry points of your wings. "Okay," he whispers, "Go ahead."

   You mumble your key word, and soon the rips are occupied by strong limbs with black and red feathers that quiver under Dean's exhales. You sigh, turning around and shaking them out before settling back in front of Dean.

   You glance at the bruises, and grimace. They've definitely turned darker, and hurt even more if possible. The handprint is obviously large and belonging to a man, and it makes Dean suck in a breath through his teeth.

   "Fuck, why didn't you tell me about this?!" You lower your gaze so you stare at his chest instead of his eyes. Shame and guilt washes through you, from hiding it and from the actions inflicted on your previously. God, if you hadn't of walked out of that bar!

   "I'm sorry..." Your eyes burn, thinking of the hand sliding up your thigh. It had been aimed right for your undergarments. You shudder in disgust, cheeks draining of colour at the thought of what could have happened if Dean hadn't of shown. 

   "Did he touch you anywhere else?" You motion at your cheek, before dropping your hand to cellench at the bottom of the shirt. Your wings droop behind you.

   "He had his hand...up my skirt..."

   Dean bites back a growl. Anger makes him slightly dizzy, but he manages to keep his head on straight enough to reach for the med kit. He holds his hand out to you, and waits for you to nod before he cups the back of your hand with his own. Not holding your wrist, like a totally platonic person would do, but gently cupping your hand, fingers pressing softly into the edges of your palm. 

   "Let's take a look at this, hm?" Dean gently presses down on your arm, watching carefully for any sign of pain, which is, of course, all over. You instantly recoil, hissing through your teeth. Dean winces. "Okay, so that's a no-go. What about here?" He thumbs the area just below your elbow, and you only feel mild discomfort. 

   "Good, that's good. I think he just bruised it badly, but I'm gonna make a brace for your wrist just to be sure." Dean unrolls a length of bandages before grabbing pieces of plastic that are covered in a soft material. They reach from the base of your pinky to the top of the bruise, and Dean cuts and adjusts one so it can fit on the other side. He tapes them in place hastily, before swathing your entire arm in thick bandages. You watch him work, efficient and careful to not hurt you unnecessarily. It throbs when he has to pull the bandage tight, though.

   His green eyes flick back and forth between your arm and face, each movement makung your cheeks warm. He's completely focused on you, ignoring the cold beer soaking into the floor and the television in the background. You can't help but shuffle closer, discreetly as to not alert Dean. Your wings quiver in excitement and fulfillment, and you will them down. Dean isn't very good at reading wings, but he can get the general message. He doesn't need to know that his fingers on your skin make you tingly.

   Dean finishes your bandage by laying tape over the edges, smoothing them down with his fingers. "Done," he sighs, inspecting the job for any errors or possible pain points. Finding none, he looks up and gives you a small smile. "Not much I can do about your cheek, sweetheart."

   You shake your head, and offer the smile back. "It does not hurt. Thank you, Dean." Small lie. The cut and bruise ache significantly, but he's already done so much for you. "Can we go to sleep?"

   Dean chuckles, and walks across the room to shut the light off. You crawl into bed as dark floods the room, snuggling into the cold sheets. The floor and bed opposite to you creak, and you hear the shuffling of blankets before Dean murmurs a goodnight. You make a small noise back, and carefully roll on your side as to not crush your wings. The clicks of the remote turn the television off, and Dean shuffles more under his blankets, getting comfortable.

   The only sounds you can hear is your breathing and the odd car driving past on the road. The wall clock is broken, and the AC isn't on. Nothing is there to fill the silence that strangles you. You swallow, blinking away images of that large figure looming over you, offering you a drink. Rolling over, you stifle a whimper into the pillow. 

   You shake you head to clear the memories, and close your eyes. You are able to make it about three minutes before you feel the ghost of Mike's breath on your neck, puffing over your eyelids. You feel his grip on your arm, fingers clawing up your leg and brushing over the band of your underwear. You feel the cold of the car against your back. Your wings violently flap in fear.

   Crying out, you jerk up so you sit on the bed, scaring yourself and Dean. He gasps, reaching under the pillow for his knife. Instinct and habit. Instead of a monster, he finds you curled into yourself, wings wrapped around you in a cocoon of feathers. They all tremble, and Dean can hear your panicked breaths from inside. 

   He leaps up, dropping the knife away from him on the floor before carefully mumbling to you and running careful hands over your strongest wings, waiting until you relax enough for him to see your red rimmed eyes. Dean opens his arms to you, and you gratefully fall into them, surrounding yourself with the soft smell of gunpowder and leather that he always carries. You instantly soften, melting into Dean's form and feeling your eyes droop in exhaustion. Muttering something incoherent, you tuck your head into his neck. 

   Chuckling quietly, Dean scoops an arm under your legs and angles the arm around your shoulders so he doesn't hurt your wings. Your light weight makes it easy for him to maneuver you both under the covers. 

   Dean lays on his back, and sets you gently on his chest. He lets your wings trail out behind you and positions your injured arm over his ribcage, and wraps one arm under the feathers to go around your waist, and the other to stroke idly over the plumage.

   You sigh happily, already drifting into a deeper sleep. Dean copies your breathing before he takes a daring leap and presses a soft kiss to your head, lingering much longer than before. You respond by shuffling closer, molding to his side. Dean smiles, whispering into your ear.

   "Night, angel."

   

   

   

**Author's Note:**

> Song used : Like Real People Do - Hozier
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this!! Exams are coming up, so I don't know what is gonna be updated first...


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